Curse
by fairytalemanipulator
Summary: UPDATED 7.8.06... A guilt driven Dean tries to solve a murder... however, complications abound as one by one, the family is killed. The lone survivor? A ten year old girl. R&R PLEASE.
1. The Article

**Title: Curse**

**Author: fairytalemanipulator**

**Summary: A guilt-driven Dean tries to solve a murder- however, complications abound as one by one, the family is killed. The lone survivor? A ten year old girl.**

**Spoilers: Stuff up to "Provenance"—wasn't that a great episode?**

**Disclaimer: Ah, don't we all wish the Winchesters belonged to us…what fun we would have together. Sorry, but I don't own them. Aw, man.**

**A/N: Sorry for the crappy summary. Stick with me on this one, I have a feeling about this. **

**And if you don't review, you don't get hugs from me. –sticks out tongue-**

Sam flopped face-first onto the bed, letting out a cry of pain as his forehead collided with the headboard.

"Ow!" Sam rolled over, gingerly making sure his skull was still intact. He ignored his brother's loud guffaws at the youngest Winchester' misfortune. Dean hefted his bag through the door, shutting it with his foot as he entered the room.

"Graceful, bro. No wonder you look like a ballerina,"

Sam didn't give Dean the satisfaction of a response, preferring instead to close his eyes and wish away the dirt and grime covering his body.

They had spent an entire day in a cemetery digging up unmarked grave after unmarked grave, trying to find the correct bones to burn. _Twelve straight hours._ Every muscle was sore. Dean's EMF wouldn't work right—_"Sammy, I told you not to touch it!"_—Sam accidentally set grass on fire—_"Dude, if I had known you were a pyro, I wouldn't have told you to burn the shit!_—altogether, the entire thing was a fiasco. Sam was grateful to be lying down, although he knew the soot from his body was dirtying the (semi) clean sheets.

"I'll be out in a minute," Dean called as he breezed through the bathroom door into the miniscule, broken-tiled room. _Nice, _Sam thought to himself. He drifted off to his so-called "happy place" as the sound of the shower filtered through the walls.

…………………………..

Sam awoke to the clicking sound of keys on Dean's laptop. The light from the computer made his brother's face a sickly hue of white, and Sam rolled over to stare at the clock.

"You've been out for a couple hours," Dean commented without lifting his eyes from the screen. He squinted at something he was looking at before clicking the mouse and shaking his head. "Dumbasses think they know _everything _about hunting ghosts from Ghostbusters reruns…"

Sam grunted in assent before swinging his tired legs around and stumbling to his feet. Disoriented, Sam headed towards the bathroom to wash his face. Blearily, he chanced a look in the mirror and swore that he could have passed as a demon. He tried the best he could to clean himself up before going back into the main room.

"Aren't you gonna take a shower, Stinky?" Dean wrinkled his nose to convey his point, still typing away.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for our next job, what do you think? I'm looking for porn?"

Sam ignored the last highly plausible statement coming from Dean's dirty mouth. "Dean, we just finished a gig. Like, five hours ago. Can't we take a break or something?"

Dean's mouth tightened imperceptibly. He had seen this coming. "Evil doesn't take a break, Sammy,"

"It's Sam. And you sound like one of those witches," Sam groused. Dean lifted his eyes, puzzled.

"What witches?" He took a quick glance around the room to make sure said witches weren't flying out of the peeling and very crappy wallpaper.

"You know, on that show? Three witches?"

"You mean like that Shakespeare play?"

"What? No. Never mind,"

They lapsed into a sour silence, punctuated by pissed-off sounding keystrokes.

"Any nightmares?" Dean asked gruffly, not knowing if he wanted an answer.

Sam ran his hands through his hair, standing abruptly.

"I don't think so,"

"Good," Dean unconsciously lapsed into protective-big-brother mode, a stance he was quite experienced with. A less tense silence enveloped the brothers as Sam changed his clothes, exchanging the grimy jeans and shirt for a clean outfit.

Dean shut the laptop with a snap, causing Sam to jump. "I'm gonna go get food, stay here," he said brusquely, grabbing the keys from their position next to the computer. Dean switched on a bedside lamp, illuminating his brother's face in its dim yellow glow. Sam smarted at the order. "You don't have to boss me around, dude,"

"It's my job. I'm the big brother. That automatically gives me that right," Dean stared Sam down.

"Whatever," Sam sat down on the bed, grabbing the tv remote.

Dean looked at him for a moment before exiting, quietly shutting the door behind him. He wrapped his jacket tighter around himself as the cold wind stroked its icy fingers down his body. Shivering at the shock, Dean slid quickly into the driver's seat, fumbling the keys into his ignition. Sure, he would go get food, but first he needed a moment to himself.

Since they left Sara behind, Sam had been alternatively broody and gloomy. His moods were all over the place, and Dean never knew what to expect. He didn't dare tease Sam about PMS, because his brother was liable to pop him in the nose. _And I need this beautiful face to keep the ladies comin'._

Dean hated the fact that their job required constant travel, but he had resigned himself to that years ago. Sam, on the other hand, had always liked to rebel.

Sam was right about one thing. _We need a break. Too bad we won't get one anytime soon. _The brothers Winchester had something in common. The thing that kept them both going was guilt. For Sam, it was Jess, and Mary, _and God knows what else he blames himself for. _And Dean—well, Dean's guilt mostly fixated over Sam and Dad, in alternating patterns. But this time, his guilt had a life of its own.

He had seen an article online about a recent murder in Salt Lake City. A man died in his home a few days ago; according to the article, there was no evidence of foul play, but there were also no explanations. Basically a dead end. According to the coroner, the only reason the guy was dead was because he lost pints of blood.

Other than that, healthy as a horse.

There weren't even exit points for the blood to come out of; _he was just a bloody mess._

Dean chuckled at his crude humor. It really wasn't funny, though. His smile dimmed as he thought of the reason he _justknew_ this was supernaturally related. _Because this happened before. Same city. _Dean was shaken, because he knew this had happened before. That time, however, it had been a young woman living alone, a woman by the name of CeeCee Durham. And now this man.

Dean had never even gotten around to researchingthe lady'sdeath, because _other events had come up. _

And of course, he blamed himself for not solving that case, and running off on a more important hunt. He had believed that there was a chance that thedeath of CeeCee Durham was notsomethingrelated to his line of work.

Therefore, in an indirect way, he was responsible for this man's death.

He grimaced, hands tightening on the steering wheel, at the memory of the rest of the article. _Jim Buchanan leaves behind a wife and daughter. _The man was a father.

Dean also remembered the last phrase of the news article. _The sole witness to the death was the ten year old daughter. _No other information was given; Dean assumed it was to protect her privacy.

_Poor kid's gonna be messed up for life. _But Dean had sensed an opportunity; the girl could help them figure out what killed her father. _And put an end to all this. _So hopefully, it wouldn't happen again.

Satisfied with his plan of action, Dean started the engine. He planned to head down to the seediest bar to catch the local gossip about the most recent murder. _After all, this town's what—seventy miles from Salt Lake City? Bars are always the best place for gossip._

"Looks like Sammy's not getting his break after all," Dean muttered to himself as he sped down the road. He tried to ignore the chill that slowly crept up his spine; a chill that made him shiver violently. It was _one of those _chills, as Sam called it. One of those chills that said this job would be anything but ordinary.

**Now you must review! Please!**


	2. The Trip

**Hey, no reviews. I'm sad now. The only reason I kept going was because I saw a couple of you put this on your alerts list…please review? **

**Also, be sure to catch my now seven chapter story Save The Day. **

**I heart reviews. It hurts me that you are reading this and you didn't review.**

**-Sadness- **

**Ah, well. On with the show.**

**Chapter Two**

…………………………..

Sam was tired. And he was cramped.

Not to mention tired. But he already mentioned that…

_How did I let him drag me along for this_, Sam wondered for the twentieth time. He was holed up in the passenger seat of the Impala, downing nasty, lukewarm coffee while Dean took a bathroom break in the nuclear-waste-looking gas station.

They had been traveling for not even an hour, and Sam was already restless. _Why does Dean always get to choose the gig, _he thought to himself sourly, sounding like a grumpy twelve-year-old even in his head. _At least it's only a few hours away. Could be worse. Wouldn't put it past Dean to drive to Alaska when he's inone of those moods,_said the rational adult in him.

Dean hadn't said a word to him on why this job was so urgent that it couldn't wait until the next morning. However, Sam sensed some kind of a tension radiating from Dean's body that was, customarily, not supposed to be there. Sam was left to fish for information on his own, so he had looked up the article that Dean had seen and read about the murder in Salt Lake City.

_It could be our kind of thing, _he had argued with his brother while Dean was throwing his bag into the backseat back at the motel. _But why can't we wait until it's light out?_

_Because I said so._ And that was Dean's final answer. Knowing that Sam would follow with his items, Dean had headed to the check-out desk of the motel, his strides lengthy and purposeful.

Sam sighed, pushing away the thoughts. He swirled the coffee in his hand, his stomach churning along with the splotchy streaks of black and brown. Feeling slightly nauseous, Sam upended the cup on the pavement outside the window and chucked the trash into a nearby trashcan already overflowing with waste.

He missed the trash can. _I'm not picking that up. Sorry, Mother Earth._

Still apologizing to the ground upon which he littered, Sam jumped at the suddenness of Dean's reentrance into the car. In one smooth move, the older brother dumped himself on the car seat and threw a bag of what smelled like stale doughnuts onto Sam's lap.

"It's like, two in the morning," Sam yawned, pushing the bag away. Dean took that as an offer, and ripped thepaper apart getting to the food. Chewing on the days-old doughnut, he replied in a slightly snotty tone.

"These middle-class doughnuts too poor quality for you, Princess?"

"Aren't you tired?" Sam abruptly changed the subject. "Can we stop somewhere and keep going in the morning? Because if you crash our asses into a tree, Dad's gonna have to pay for the funeral,"

Dean snorted. "The car's safe, dude. Crashing into one tree won't hurt,"

Sam gaped, open mouthed. Shaking his head, he decided against a response and instead stared blankly into the cloudy, starless night.

"So why are we rushing headlong into this shit anyway, Dean?"

"Because it's our job,"

"Stop _evading _me, Dean. Just tell me what's up!" Sam replied through gritted teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean swallow the last of the doughnut.

"Nothing's—"

"If you tell me nothing's wrong, so help me God, I will beat your face into the dirty asphalt," Sam was deadly serious, and he turned towards Dean with a glint in his eye. "We are _brothers. _And we _work _together. _Us. _Not just you,"

_Eh, _Dean thought. _He has a point. Damn it._

"Okay."

"Okay?" Sam was surprised. Dean knew an empty threat when heheard one, but something must have hit a nerve.

"You want to know why this job is important to me? Here goes…"

………………………..

**Okay, so next chapter, they're in town…I know it's a little slow…if it's too slow, flame me about it! Just review, please, I die from lack of reviews.**


	3. The Journal

**Whew! I'm way overdue for this one, sorry guys! The next chapter should be up by next week, please leave reviews! I'll respond to as many as I can, thank you so much! Mwah!**

**Chapter Three: The Journal**

Sam's mouth hung open.

"Dean, you're feeling guilty because…because…" Sam couldn't even finish his sentence, and Dean flushed. _Geez, now he's gonna think I'm a complete pussy. Great going, big bro. You nitwit, talking about your 'feelings' like some—_

"You fucking moron!"

Dean's head snapped up.

"How the hell is this you fault? We write off jobs as nothing to worry about on a regular basis, Dean! If you couldn't find anything—"

"That's just it, dude! I didn't even stick around long enough to check it out!"

_Oh, how the tables have turned._

The wheels in Sam's head turned as well. _How can I be the big brother? _The silence in the car simmered.

"Fine. If you want to pretend like it's all your fault that some people died, go ahead! That's usually my job, though. I'll be wanting it back," Sam stared straight ahead, the corners of his mouth turning up.

Dean eyed Sam, shaking his head.

"We'll be there soon," he turned the key in the ignition just as the first delicate drops of rain spattered across the windshield.

"What'll we do when we get there? Library's closed,"

Dean ran a hand through his hair as he peered at the ominous sky. "We'll catch a few hours of sleep, then hit the books when the library opens,"

"Do you even know the approximate time that libraries open?"

"Dude, why should I care? That's your department," Dean snarked. Their earlier conversation washed away with the ever increasing flow of water from the skies. As Dean pulled into the road, the Impala's tires let out a screechy noise. The car slid without traction for a few feet while Dean tried unsuccessfully to end the skid.

Regaining control, Dean let out a string of curses.

"Try to get us there in one piece, okay?" Sam snapped, not hiding frustration at Dean's futile attempts. Sam couldn't tell what Dean said back to him, but he was quite sure he heard "fuck off" somewhere in his mumble.

…………………..

"I cannot BELIEVE you lost the key! What are you, four?" Dean hissed, picking the lock to their hotel room. "Dude, my lucky knife's in there!"

"You have a lucky knife?" Sam chortled. Dean shot him a dirty look, still on his knees in front of the door.

"Keep a lookout, dumbass!"

Sam turned his back to his struggling brother, scanning their surroundings with a practiced eye. He had left all of the photocopies of the old newspapers in the car. _At least I didn't lose those keys. Or, actually, at least _Dean _didn't lose those keys._

"Got it,"

"Yeah, it only took you what, twenty minutes?"

Dean tripped Sam on his way through the door. Sam caught himself at the last second, whipping around with a glare. Dean shrugged with his arms spread wide, his grin saying it all.

They had effectively managed to get five hours of sleep before heading to the library at ten in the morning. What Dean had called "the wee hours of dawn". The library was almost empty, so they had worked quickly and inconspicuously, photocopying anything in the old newspapers about the two separate deaths. It wasn't hard to find information, considering the national coverage that the investigations had been given. The police had considered the similarities between the deaths, but the time span in between had been vast enough to give reasonable doubt. The reason for national attention was the strange natures of the deaths, as exsanguination without any proof was a mystery. Foul play was ruled out because there were no suspects, no evidence, no leads…the only plausible explanations were

"Alien possessions."

"What?" Sam looked up from the mountain of papers spread before him on the bed.

"Alien poss—"

"Yeah, I heard you. That's the best theory you got?"

"No, that's the best _they've _got," Dean smirked, throwing aside the article with a flourish. "You find anything useful?"

"It's weird, dude. It's like everyone knows there's something going on, but no one figured it out,"

"Well, duh. How many people in this craphole of a town do you think believe in Casper and his buddies?"

"Both of the victims were previously healthy," Sam murmured to himself, completely disregarding Dean's remark. "Neither were involved in anything shady, no satanic cult business, but obviously they're connected in some way, that Durham woman and this guy,"

"So you think it's our kinda thing?" Dean asked seriously, resting his elbows on the table.

"Yeah, I think you were right. It's weird…" Sam rubbed his forehead.

"What?"

"I could have sworn—" Sam suddenly stood up, grabbing his duffel bag. Finding John's journal, he flipped through it at such a rapid speed that Dean's eyes blurred.

"What's up, Sam?"

"Look!" Sam pointed triumphantly. Dean grabbed at the notebook, seeing very clearly the name of the town they were residing in printed in John's steady handwriting. Below it…

"Dates and names," Dean breathed. _1899- Jim Taylor. 1925- Mary Hutchinson. 1956- Clara Roberts. 1959- Clarence Simmons. 1988-Eugene Smith. 1994- Rebecca Frank. 2003- CeeCee Durham. _

"And now, 2006," Sam added.

"How the fuck did we miss this?" Dean said angrily. "Dad knew something was going on here, otherwise he wouldn't have written these in!"

"He knew something was happening in this town, but he probably couldn't find anything,"

"But I came down here too, remember? Maybe he thought I would find something he missed," Dean paced the length of the floor, rubbing his head.

"There is some relation between all of these people, because there isn't any relation between the time periods," Sam calculated. _Random years. No correlation there._

"Right. But how are we supposed to figure that out? From the 1800s?"

"Dean, we gotta talk to that girl. She's the one that saw her dad die," Sam said, straightening his back.

"Why would her mom let her talk to us?"

"If we're cops, I don't think she has a choice,"

"Right on, Sammy," Dean chuckled, patting his brother's shoulder. "I taught you well."

"Dean. It's Sam."

"Right, right, whatever. Come on, the badges are in the car,"

**_Review! I promise the next chap's coming up soon! Tell me what you want to happen and maybe I'll work it in...lots of DeanWhomping coming up :)_**


	4. The Girl

**Hello, kids. Long time no see. Summer vacation equals a heavy workload for me…sorry, I'll try to update more frequently. This chapter's way too long, but it flows rather nicely this way. Stick with me here, it's just getting interesting!**

**Reviews keep me going…thanks, guys!**

**Chapter 4: The Girl**

"Are you sure this is the place?" Sam muttered to Dean. They were parked in front of the apartment complex that the mother and daughter were supposedly staying at. Dean had 'badged' his way into the local precinct, posing as an FBI agent. It hadn't taken much, as the town only employed a handful of cops and detectives. Obviously, the secretary at the front lacked experience—_in more ways than one, _Dean had thought, a bit cruelly.

"Yeah, this is the place. Why, not freaky enough for ya?"

"No, it's plenty freaky," Sam mumbled, his eyes fixated on the empty, desolate street. "You ever felt this creepy vibe before?"

"You getting one now?" Dean peered curiously into Sam's eyes, getting a punch on the arm in return for his troubles.

"Yeah, you idiot. This is majorly weird,"

"Okay," Dean sat there a second, digesting the information. Then, he completely shoved it aside. "Let's go,"

He popped out of the driver's seat, abruptly shutting the door to make his way to the apartments. He was halted in his tracks by a sharp tug to the collar.

"Not so fast, Sherlock," Sam hissed in his ear. "What's your plan, huh? 'Hey, we're big bad cops and we want to hear in person how your kid saw her daddy die'?"

Dean paused for a moment in consideration, head cocked to one side.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Okay. You let me do the talking,"

"If you screw this one up…"

"I swear I won't, Dean," Sam gave Dean the patented 'puppy dog eyes', and Dean gave a doubtful snort in response. He let Sam lead them up the steps, however, without further comment. They opened the door, scanning the mailboxes on their left to see which apartment they belonged to.

"Noonan. That's empty apartment they're staying in now, right?" Sam pointed.

"Yeah, Apartment 2C," Dean started up the stairs only to be pulled back by his belt.

"Sam, what is it with you? Am I your bitch or something?" Dean patted his clothes back into place, ignoring his brother's smirk.

"Seriously, Dean, let me do the talking,"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, glancing suspiciously behind him as he once again started up the stairs. Finding the apartment on the second floor, Dean lifted his hand to knock.

"Hello? FBI, open up," As he knocked, the door slid open a bit. Dean and Sam exchanged nonplussed looks.

"Dude. That is straight out of a horror flick," Dean breathed, listening as the door emitted a tiny screeching sound. It was then that Sam noticed that the lights in the hallway had dimmed and were now on the verge of flickering out.

"Dean…" Sam said warningly, drawing his gun. But Dean was already pushing the door open, his .99 Magnum in hand.

The door hit against the opposite wall with a resounding smack. Dean winced, squinting in the dark. Sam was right behind him; Dean could hear his heavy breathing. Unfortunately, he couldn't see anything wrong with the apartment. All of a sudden, he felt a chill go up his spine, so sharp that he was forced to shudder.

"Sam, what in the name of…"

Dean turned, only to find Sam's back to him.

"Sam?"

"Don't move," a high, scared voice came from in front of Sam.

Dean saw Sam put his gun down on the floor, slowly and steadily, as a figure moved into the light.

It was the daughter.

Her hand shook on the gun trained in their direction. "I swear, I'm going to kill you!"

"Hang on there, we're cops, we want to help you," Sam soothed, his cracking voice the only sign of stress.

"You're cops? I didn't call the police…" She stuttered, finger loosening on the trigger.

"We were just coming down here to ask you some questions, and we saw the door—"

"She's dead," It came out as a sob, and Dean winced. _Jeez, talk about traumatizing._

"Who's dead?" Dean asked, his voice rough with tension from the gun in front of him. She still hadn't realized that Dean's gun was in his hand, but he wasn't about to move. _If I spook her, she's liable to pull the trigger._

"My mom! It killed her! In her r-r-room!" The ten year old sobbed openly while the brothers eyed the gun in her hand with trepidation.

"What killed—"

"The same thing that killed my dad and CeeCee! I told you guys before, I told the cops before, but they didn't believe me!" She was hysterical, waving the gun in front of her.

"We'll believe you—" Sam was cut off by Dean.

"You knew CeeCee?"

"She was my real mom!"

The only sounds heard in the room were those of the girl crying and the clock in the corner ticking. Sam and Dean processed what she had said. _Her real mother was murdered. Meaning she was...adopted? And now, her other parents are dead, too... _The brothers exchanged a glance, each knowing what the other was thinking. _Now it makes more sense._

"I saw it kill Dad! CeeCee and Mom are dead! And now, I'm the only one left!"

With that, she slumped onto the floor in a dead faint.

The boys stayed silent for a second, surveying the damage.

"I told you to let me talk," Sam said as he moved to the girl, checking her pulse. "We never even found out her name,"

"She's still alive, right?" Dean worried. Sam looked up, surprise etched on his face.

"Yeah, but it's not like we're going to kidnap her or something,"

"Well, right, but, I was just making sure that she wasn't…"

"Dead?"

"Yeah,"

Sam stood up, eyeing his surroundings. He saw a light switch in the corner, and flipping it on simply revealed the extent of the normalcy of the apartment

"CeeCee was related to the Buchanan family because this girl," Here Dean paused to indicate the unconscious child, "was her real daughter,"

Sam went to the girl, picking the gun out of her grasp. "Should we move her?"

"I don't think so, I don't think it's a good idea to get our prints all over this shit,"

"Wait, what were you saying?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I was saying there's a connection. The families were connected by this girl. Maybe all the other people, the other victims, were related in some way. That would explain a lot,"

"Yeah, but wouldn't Dad have checked this out before?"

"I don't think so," Dean's mouth pursed, and Sam looked at him curiously.

"Dean?"

"Dad came down here the year after I came down here, just to follow up on some leads. I don't think he went too in depth, besides finding all the exsanguinations. I guess he couldn't find anything solid, but if he had done research, he should have found connections, right?"

"Well, how do you find connections all the way from the 1800s?" Sam tried to reason, wondering why he was the one defending their father.

"That was the year…" Dean paused in his thought process, glancing in Sam's direction.

"What?"

"Nevermind."

"No, what? You have to tell me, Dean, it could be important,"

"That was the year Dad went on a binge-drinking spree," Dean said quietly, unexpectedly. "You were gone, it was just me and him; and then I went on hunts by myself…I guess he just wasn't himself. I remember…"

"What do you remember?" Sam took in the absurdity of the situation. He was learning about his family problems in the middle of an apartment with an unconscious girl and dead woman in the bedroom.

"I had to clean up a lot of his work for him," Dean swallowed. "I ended up having to go on all the jobs with him, towards the end of the year, because he was screwing stuff up,"

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Yeah,"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, obviously, Sammy boy, you didn't want to give us the time of day after you left us, remember?" Dean was taken aback by the animosity in his own voice.

"Let's not do this now,"

"What do you mean? You're the one that started it, dude,"

"So you're saying," Sam desperately tried to divert conversation back to the case, "that Dad might have missed something?"

"No, I'm saying we might not have looked hard enough for relations. We didn't even check family records," Dean defended. Sam sighed, looking at his brother. _Daddy's little soldier._

"Well, we're obviously going to have to do that,"

"Yeah, but we can't just leave the girl here," On cue, the lump on the floor started moving. A dark blonde head twitched as it was raised into the light of the one lamp turned on.

"What…" Her voice was hoarse, childlike. _Because she's just a kid, _Dean forced himself to remember, painfully.

"Hey there," Sam crouched down to her level. "How are you feeling?"

The girl's eyes were now devoid of tears. She looked at Sam, sizing him up.

"You're not a cop,"

Sam started, stepping back. She stumbled to her feet, precariously resting her hand on the sofa.

"I can tell you're not a cop,"

"You're right, we're not. But I promise, we're not going to hurt you. We're just looking for answers,"

She regarded him, sadly and calmly. She didn't reach for a gun, didn't fight them.

"Me too," She responded in a voice much too old for a ten year old.

"Can you give us some information on what you know? We can help stop this if you help us out,"

The girl sighed, looking from one haggard face to the other. "I guess if you wanted to kill me, you could have done it already,"

"I'm Sam, and this is Dean," Sam motioned towards his brother. "We try to solve things like this for a living,"

Dean was surprised at Sam's openness. He tried to find a reason to tell him to shut up, then realized that he was supplying her with the reassurance she needed.

"You mean, like ghostbusters?" she questioned, red eyes widening.

Sam let out a soft chuckle. "Yeah, like ghostbusters,"

"I'm Jamie," She held out a soft, pale hand to shake. "Jamie Buchanan,"

"Nice to meet you, Jamie," Sam shook her hand.

There was a silence, then Jamie piped up.

"Did you…did you call someone yet? To…take Mom?"

_Oh shit. _Dean remembered that there was a _freaking dead body _in the other room.

"I'm on it," he muttered to Sam. "Let's get out of here, call the cops, then break back in after they're gone. I don't think seeing the lady's body is gonna help us in any way,"

Sam nodded in assent. "Hey, Jamie, why don't we take you down to the police station?" Sam ignored Dean's frantic attempts for his attention and his whispered 'WE CAN'T GO TO THE STATION!'s.

"Okay." She seemed lifeless, drained somehow. She walked to the door, pausing to take one last look at the apartment. "You know, they said we'd be safe here. That the man couldn't get us here, because it was a safelocation,"

The brothers looked at her, finding it hard to meet her gaze.

"I told them it wasn't a man," She continued, hand resting on the doorknob. "I told them it was something else." She lowered her eyes to the floor. "I'll be in the hall,"

"Okay," Sam smiled encouragingly at her while she walked out, then turned a look of fury upon his brother.

"What should we do now, Dean? Do you propose that we 'take her on a walk', to pry some information out of her? How perverted would that be, huh? She has no reason to trust us, as it is. She just lost her mom, or her adopted mom, or—whatever she was, she is obviously in major shock, and if she disappears the cops are gonna send out an Amber Alert for her! Did you even think of that? We ARE going to the police station," At this point, Sam leveled a gaze of 'just try me' at his older brother. "On the way to the station, we can ask her about what she knows. That should be long enough. You call the cops when we get in the car, we make up a story when we get to the station about finding her in the park, and we're good to go!"

_Dammit. Why is he right so often? _"Fine. But I could have come up with a better plan," Dean groused, tromping his way to the door.

"And Dean…"

"What?"

"Thanks for letting me do the talking," With that, a glowering Sam swept out of the door.

**Review!**


	5. The Beginning

**A/N: Oh my lord! It's been so long…summer classes take up more of my time than you will ever know…damn education.**

**Well, here is the fifth chapter, and we're starting to get into it a little…hopefully, I still have some people out there who stuck with the story! –pleads-**

**This one's pretty short compared to the others, but the next chapter is prewritten and I'm just waiting for reviews. Yes, I am holding out on you. –grin-**

**Fanfiction's been weird for a couple days, otherwise this woulda been up sooner, enjoy!**

**Same disclaimers/spoilers, etc etc.**

**On with the show! And please REVIEW!**

**Chapter Five: The Beginning**

The brothers Winchester were tired. And drained. It felt like forever since they had relinquished control of Jamie to the local police force. They had found her in the hall outside the apartment after the brothers' quasi-fight—she was fast asleep, her head leaning back against the wall. Cautiously, Dean had lifted her into his arms, startled at how little she weighed. In the car, Sam and Dean had yet another whispered argument on whether or not to wake her up, before deciding that it would be more fruitful for them to go on with what information they had received.

"_I told you we should have asked her while we had the chance!" Dean had whispered furiously as they rolled up the parking lot of the police precinct._

"_Shut up. I think we have enough to go on now. And, even if we have more questions, we can come back and ask,"_

For the sake of his sanity, Dean had agreed and they had told some story about finding the girl wandering in the park, crying about her mother's body in the apartment. The town's two police officers and detectives blazed their way to the apartment, with Dean requesting the blushing secretary at the front desk to be informed via cell phone if there were any new leads.

Sam had an argument for that one, too. _"You gave them your cell phone number?" He had hissed in his brother's ear. "And what happens if they trace said number?"_

At this point, Dean's frustration was causing his temper to fray rather quickly. He yanked his brother by the jacket outside before proceeding to tell him, using variants of colorful language, that the only way _in hell_ they would know to trace his number would be if they did anything _suspicious. _He followed up with a _got that, dumbass? _and didn't wait for his brother to follow him to the car.

So now, half an hour later, they were sitting silently, researching the relations between victims.

"Let's draw it out," Sam broke the awkward silence, getting a look from his brother in return.

"If I remember correctly, Samuel, you aren't exactly Picasso,"

Sam dutifully ignored his brother, writing names down on his paper. "So we know, from hospital records, that Jamie Janine Buchanan was adopted at birth by Jim and Gloria Buchanan. Her real mother—" here Sam paused to write in _CeeCee Durham_, "gave her up, yet five years later became a part of their lives,"

"That sounds about right…"

Dean spaced out as Sam connected the dots to the rest of the family. They knew, for a fact, that they were all blood relations to Jamie. _All except her adopted parents._

"So this thing—" Dean interrupted Sam midsentence. "This thing is after Jamie?"

"Why wouldn't it have killed her already?"

"And why are these random relations dying? Jamie's real, as well as adopted, grandparents are still alive,"

"Yeah, but her real grandmother's brother was killed in his teenage years, dude," Sam tapped the name _Eugene Smith _with his pencil. "And the only relatives killed—"

"All of these dead people were living in the same area, same state and all,"

"Yeah, none of her out-of-state relations have had unexplainable deaths,"

"So what do you think? Someone made a deal with the devil?"

"Maybe. Maybe it was a soul trade, or an angered demon,"

Both men fell silent, regarding the possibilities.

"You know we don't have much time." Dean looked at his brother.

"I mean, we don't know when it's going to strike again, but the only living relations to Jamie aren't in this town anymore,"

"Meaning if it's targeting her family, she's probably next," Dean's voice resounded in the hotel room. _This—this thing, whatever it is, is a ticking time bomb—until it finishes off the last one._

"We have to figure out what's going on here," Sam voiced Dean's thoughts, bringing him out of his trance.

"I'm not going to let that girl die," Dean muttered, more to himself than his brother. But Sam heard it all the same, and regarded his brother with sad eyes.

"We can't save everyone, Dean,"

Dean looked straight into Sam's eyes, all traces of jest gone.

"Well, we can try."

…………..

**I am shamelessly begging for reviews. PLEASE!**


	6. The Curse

**Whoo! Summer classes suck. This was a hastily written piece that goes a little fast, but just pretend it's all believable for my sake. I promise the next chapter will be better written, peeps! Flame me for my horrible updating skills…just review. Flame if you want, I just enjoy getting any reviews. **

**Hugs from the fairytalemanipulator.**

**Chapter Six: The Curse**

……………………

"Dean!" Sam's whispered shout traveled down the desolate hallway. "I think I got something!"

"Finally," Dean mumbled, sidestepping the piles of old newspaper littering the ground. After two hours at the second library in the next town over, Dean was ready for a nap. Or a beer.

"You check on Jamie?"

"Yeah," Dean said, his eyebrows coming together unconsciously. "They're still holding her at the station."

"I guess she's safe there, right?"

Dean let out a snort. "Yeah, and I'm Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile."

"Wasn't Cleopatra a princess?"

"Fuck it, man, just tell me what you got."

Sam waved a yellowing parchment in Dean's face. "Michael Durham."

"Huh?"

"CeeCee Durham was married…well, at least for a little bit. This guy was her husband."

"And?" Dean snatched the paper out of Sam's hands.

"AND—" Sam paused to snatch it back. "He died the year after Jamie was born."

Dean pushed a finger against his suddenly throbbing temple. "Lemme get this straight. This dude, Michael, is Jamie's real dad? How the fuck does that help us in any way?"

"He died the same way. Only we never found out about it til now."

"Why?" Dean regarded Sam with icy eyes, convinced that the younger Winchester _fucked something up_.

"He died in Salt Lake City."

"Wait—" Dean held up a hand, using the other to rummage through the duffel bag at his feet.

"Salt Lake City…Salt Lake City…" He muttered to himself, flipping though photocopies. "Here, check it out."

Sam grabbed the paper, reading to himself. "Wait…this is the first victim's diary? From the 1890s? Where in the HELL did we get such good luck?"

Dean smirked, obviously proud of himself. "It's incredible what's on the good ol' Internet nowadays. It was on some museum website, but I could only get bits and pieces."

"This guy traveled to Salt Lake City in the 1800s?"

"Apparently, yeah. So maybe this is where it all started."

"But he died in his hometown. And after he died, something kept killing off his family members. It's almost mechanical. Maybe a soul snatcher, or a…" Sam trailed off midsentence. Dean's eyes met his in understanding, and they let out a single phrase.

"It's a curse."

Silence. Then…

"God DAMN it!"

"Dean! Keep it down! In a LIBRARY here!"

"Sam! Do you have ANY idea how much time we've wasted? It was in front of our fucking FACES the whole—"

"Well, it was pretty hard to trace it back that far—"

"The first vic, he did something in Utah," Dean talked over Sam. "Something that put a curse on his family,"

"But if it's a curse on the Durham family…or whatever their last names used to be a hell of a long time ago…then why are the Buchanans dead?"

Dean rubbed the stubble on his cheek, his eyes reflecting a memory. "Curses don't really distinguish well. It wanted to get to Jamie, right? Because she's the last link to the family?" Dean waited until Sam nodded in assent to go on. "The curse must have assumed that it couldn't get to the kid unless it took out the guardians. It's messed up logic, but hey, it's a freaking curse."

"That makes sense, in a roundabout way," Sam nodded thoughtfully, his eyes squinting. "Putting a curse on a family is pretty deep, dark magic though. What would have the power to do that?"

"Well, back in the 1800s, the gypsies were really big, and the witches have always been out there…" Dean drifted off, his tone increasingly frustrated. "Look, dude, we can ponder all we want, but now that we know for SURE it's a curse, can we get on it? Because I get the feeling that if we keep contemplating this shit, Jamie's gonna get the raw end of the deal,"

"Curses expire, don't they?" Sam's question was more of a statement, and Dean slammed a hand against his forehead.

"How the hell could I not have seen this? I swear to God, I'm getting too old,"

"That's why it's killing so frequently now. Because it's time's almost up, and it needs to finish its job,"

"Sam." Dean's voice was gravelly, and the younger Winchester looked up in alarm. "Sam, we're running out of time."

"What do you mean? How can we stop it?"

Dean looked at Sam, his eyes hollow in pain. And Sam understood.

"We can't stop it," he breathed. "It's going to kill Jamie…and then…it'll be over."

Dean paced the floor, eyes on the ground. Thoughts ran through his head. Images of crime scene photos from CeeCee Durham's house, snapshots of the too-grown-up-for-her-age Jamie telling them that her mother was dead in the next room… "No."

The word was spoken so low that Sam almost didn't hear it. "No?"

"It's not killing the kid."

Sam eyed his brother, respect in his eyes. "How do we stop it?"

Dean whirled around, relief evident on his face. Sam's support was crucial at this point, because Dean had truly never faced a deadly curse before. "I don't know…if there's a way…"

"We've never dealt with curses before, have we," Sam voiced Dean's inner thoughts.

"You ever read anything about beating curses? 'Cause I heard that you gotta let them run their course, and that…there's no way to stop 'em."

Sam didn't miss the beat of panic in Dean's voice. If there was one thing his older brother couldn't stand, it was watching while an innocent life was taken.

"Dean. We'll find a way to stop it. Jamie's not going to die."

"If we don't hurry, she probably will. Remember, it doesn't follow a pattern."

"I know, I know," Now Sam joined in the pacing, his footsteps unknowingly tracing those of his brother's. Their prints marred the clean layer of dust lying on the floor of the public records room.

"I think there's someone we can call," Sam said slowly, the wheels in his head turning.

Dean ran through their list of contents, coming up empty on every front. "Sam, I don't think Caleb or Pastor Jim ever dealt with curses, either. It's pretty rare shit, and they would've mentioned it—"

"Not them."

"Then who?"

"Someone who can give us some hope."

……………………

**Review review review! And yes, the next chapter will contain the return of a very dear character of ours…don't spill the beans if you know who it is! Cheers!**


	7. The Guilt

**A/N: Okay, I really need to get into the habit of updating like a normal person instead of a monkey on crack. I swear I'm writing my little fanny off! This chapter sort of flowed out of me, and I didn't feel like proofreading it, so I apologize if it's a bit annoying. Hopefully it brings it all to the table for ya'alls. I don't think my previous statement made any sense, but I'm hopped up on Nyquil and decongestants so excuse me.**

**Reviews would make me cough less, and would be greatly appreciated!**

**Chapter 7- The Guilt**

"_Boy, you better have some good reason for waking me!"_

Dean grinned. "Hey, Missouri, didn't you know we were going to call?"

"_Don't mean I didn't wish you wouldn't!"_

The older Winchester puzzled out her words, smiling. Missouri could be unpredictable late at night.

"_You got anything to say, or am I just gonna have to do my whole _Patricia Arquette _thing, as you would say?"_

Dean rolled his eyes, mouthing words at Sam, who sat beside him thoroughly enjoying his older brother's dilemmas.

"_I'm gonna whack you with my wooden spoon if I ever hear you thinking that again, young man!"_

Dean jumped, the tinny voice from his cell phone leaping out at him. "Missouri, I really—"

"_Wish I wouldn't do that? Too bad. Now, hurry up and tell me your story, my feet are gettin' cold,"_

"Don't you—"

"_Already know? 'Course. But I want to hear your version of it."_

Sighing, Dean rolled his eyes yet again at his brother. He shot him a look saying, _I can not believe you made me call her._

"_Ah ha! So you didn't want to talk to me after all! What is it with the younger generations these days? Never respectin' their elders…"_

"Missouri? Can you help us or not?"

"Why don't you tell me exactly what you want me to do?"

Dean relayed his thoughts to Missouri, reflecting on the curse put upon the family generations ago.

"_It's a gypsy curse, isn't it?"_

"How are we supposed to know?"

"_Didn't yo' father teach you nothing? The gypsies were a powerful bunch back then. Even the witches couldn't have made a curse last this long. If you got all your information straight, then this little girl don't have much time,"_

"I know that, Missouri," Dean sounded frustrated, and he could feel Missouri picking up his vibes. "But what I don't know is how to stop it!"

The psychic was silent for a moment, and Dean could hear the static crackling through the line. _"Have you tried calling your father?"_

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "He hasn't picked up. Ever. So why would he do it now?"

"_I'm sensing some resentment, Dean,"_

"Can we do the whole Oprah thing later, please? I really don't feel like finding another bloodless body today,"

"_Are you saying you need my help?"_

"Yeah." Dean grunted, examining his nails. _She's gonna hold this over me for the rest of my life._

"_Now, why would I do a thing like that?"_

"Huh?"

"_Tell Sam I'll be there shortly. It shouldn't be too long of a drive."_ And with that, there was a click. Dean stared at his phone, then looked at Sam.

"I didn't even tell her where we were," Dean looked nonplussed, and Sam had to chuckle.

"I don't think you needed to, dude,"

…………….

"What kind of a place is this?" Missouri's voice rang at them through the door of their motel room. Hurriedly, Dean threw on a shirt. They had taken all the information they needed from the library and caught a catnap before the psychic arrived.

"I can not believe that people come here for vacations!" She boomed, patting Dean on the cheek and brushing past him. "You need a shave, boy!"

"Hey, Missouri," Sam came out of the bathroom, smile widening.

"Hey, yourself, Samuel! What on earth possessed you to become this skinny? You look like you need a good bucket of fried chicken!"

"How was your drive?" Dean asked courteously, pulling out an overstuffed chair for the older woman.

"Fine, fine, it's all fine," She muttered distractedly, peering into corners of the room. "I am so glad there ain't rats here, 'cause I was just 'bout ready to head back to Kansas when I pulled into this here parking lot,"

The boys sat down on the bed across from her, looking uncomfortable. Sam's eyes wandered to the random boxers crumpled on the floor next to the bed, and the two shotguns nestled neatly into the crevice between the table and the wall. Dean, on the other hand, remembered the boxes of stale, moldy food hidden beneath the bed.

"If they find out 'bout that, they'll make you pay," Missouri reprimanded him sternly. "And don't even think about rolling those eyes at me, son!"

"I—"

Sam cut Dean off. "Missouri, what can you tell us about this curse?"

She regarded him and his brother closely, taking in the haggard features of the young men. _What a toll this case is taking on them._ "I can tell you it's something bad,"

"How bad?" Dean asked, his heart skipping a beat.

"Bad enough for me to be able to sense it just driving into this tiny town,"

"Does that happen a lot?" Sam asked curiously, leaning forward.

Missouri sighed. "No. In fact, the last time I felt something so strongly was decades ago…I felt something like this from your old house, after it was burned down,"

Silence reigned over the hotel room as the Winchesters digested the information.

"Are you saying that the thing that killed Mom and Jess—"

"No, Sam," Missouri looked him in the eye, not unkindly. "It's not a demon, remember? It's a curse. A bad one, at that. Some pretty black magic made this, and it's going to take some heavy magic to take it back,"

"So, there _is _a way to stop it before it kills again, right?" Dean's voice shook in the slightest, and Missouri did not miss it.

"You need to stop blaming yo'self for this, Dean! How could you have stopped it?" Missouri paused for a second, obviously delving into Dean's mind. "Oh, now, come on! That's nonsense! How could you have known it was something like this! You're helping a little girl now, and that's a good thing, boy. Don't let your guilt cloud your mind, now,"

Dean stared, utterly dumbstruck. Sam glanced at his brother and cleared his throat. "Okay, so we know that Jamie's still at the police station, and she's okay for now. I'm guessing that they're waiting for foster care to pick her up,"

"We're gonna need her for this to work," Missouri pulled out an ink-stained paper from her bag. "This is an ancient spell used by the witches to curse objects. I can manipulate it to take away a curse with some fancy footwork, but we need kin of the cursed to be sure of its success,"

An unworded question floated through the air, and Missouri latched on to it. "No, boys, I'm not sure if it's going to work. Curses are tricky things, and they can also backfire pretty easily. If we make a mistake somewhere, we could release a whole lot of evil into the world. You can't get rid of normal curses easily, but gypsy curses are even worse…this is all we've got,"

Dean ran his hands through his hair. "Alright, let me just go get some coffee then we'll figure out how to get Jamie out of the cop hellhole,"

He stood, grabbing his wallet. Sam made as if to stand after him, but Missouri motioned him down with a subtle movement. Taking the hint, Sam rested on the bed, eyeing his brother suspiciously. Dean slammed the door behind him, and Missouri reclined in her chair.

"Your brother needs to be alone now, baby. He's takin' this hard,"

"Why, though? It's not like it's his fault,"

Missouri shook her head. "He thinks he could've saved a lot of people from suffering if he caught this curse beforehand. Dean's stubborn like that, stubborn as a mule. He gets that from your daddy, you know,"

"Missouri?"

"Yes, baby,"

"Have you ever gotten rid of a curse before?"

"Yes, but nothing this complex. You have to understand, I deal mostly with the lesser evil. Some of the gypsies way back when were pure cruelty, and their magic lived on long after they passed. A lot of the evil things we see today are direct descendents of the old days. Now, that being said, not all gypsies were bad. But the ones that were…whew. You wouldn't want to tangle with them, boy,"

"Do you…know…if it's going to work?"

Missouri seemed amused, and she propped her chin up on her hand. "What do you think I am? I ain't no God, of course I don't KNOW if it'll work,"

"But, what's your feeling?"

Solemnly, she looked Sam in the eye. And he saw the truth.

"Sam, if it doesn't work, we can always try other things…" But the hesitation in her voice was evident.

"Missouri…I don't think Dean'll be able to handle it if we can't save Jamie,"

"Your brother's stronger than you think, and you know that. He'll find a way." Missouri smiled on the outside, intent on calming the youngest son of John Winchester. But on the inside, she was praying.

_Lord, let this work out. For the sake of Dean's sanity and the sake of his faith, let it work._

…………………..

Dean walked. And walked. And walked. He passed two coffee shops along the way—_who knew the boonies liked caffeine so much?_—but he kept going. He kept going until he was outside the apartment complex where they had picked Jamie up.

He sat on a bench across the street, seeing the yellow police tape fluttering in the breeze. And sitting there, Dean felt his sorrows wash over him.

His job was all about detachment, but Dean was feeling particularly attached to the young girl who had lost so much.

What would it be like to watch people around you die? _The people you love dropping like flies._

Dean was never a sentimental sort of guy. He preferred what Sam called his _fuck and run_ method of living his life. He drifted from place to place, he solved case after case, killed demons and witches and shtrigas and skinwalkers and god knows what else…and he saved lives.

But somewhere along the way, he felt as though he lost his humanity.

Shooting that shapeshifter in St. Louis, the one with his face, numbed Dean to the pains of the world.

The creature looked like him, talked like him, acted like…_an asshole_. But the act of killing it, killing a human look-alike—Dean expected it to be more painful for him.

It frightened him when it wasn't.

And now, a child's life was at stake because of Dean's mistake. _I knew I should've looked into CeeCee Durham's death. Dad always said to trust your instincts, and I just ignored mine._

_Great mess you've gotten yourself into, Dean. You do a bangin' good job._


End file.
